Mickin' it up

"I'm from Dublin - listen to me."

As mentioned, we journeyed to Ireland for an extended weekend. Good times were had by all.

To start, we took a popular European discount airline to Dublin - Ryan Air. Ryan Air, based in the UK, is revered amongst Euros and Americans in Europe alike for the low costs, as low as 20 Euros one way to cities like London, Paris, Madrid, etc. Its a no-frills cheap and easy airline with few perks. All the "extras", like checked baggage and meals, cost an additional fee and are to be avoided if possible. I think we dropped roughly 100 Euro per person to get to Dublin and back, and we actually DID order the checked baggage (which only Pete used - and in the process won the "packs like a teenage girl" award for the trip).

So its not bad on pricing. One down-side to it is that in flies out of Hahn airport (which is west of Frankfurt) rather than Frankfurt Airport itself. The drive is longer and a little tedious on single lane roads, but its only a small setback.

The flight is almost like taking a European train but in the air. No assigned seats, just show up and sit down, and you're off. The seats don't recline, and the meals and other items are shuttled by on carts - everything again is available for a small fee.

Other than that, its like any other flight, and after less than two hours we found ourselves walking off of a plane, stepping out onto a mobile staircase, and descending the steps onto a tarmac in Dublin.

In the rain.

This "rain", as it were, became a definite theme of the trip. The weather in Ireland is horrible. Its always raining, misting, cold, or something. The three of us (Pete, Gwen, and myself, prior to meeting up with Betsy who came later) were almost drenched by the time we simply got inside the terminal. Poor weather persisted for most of the weekend, sparking several recurring jokes along the lines of "Crap, I forgot my sunscreen", "How come everything is so green here?", and the like.

Outside of the airport, we waited in line for a taxi in the mist (it was covered but still the mist broke through) that was not unlike the taxi line at the Las Vegas airport, minus the completely opposite weather. It was long and wrapped around itself like a cruel parody of some ride at Disneyland.

Our taxi driver from the airport made for an amusing first "native" encounter - she was a little Irish sassafras and by the end of the cab ride she had insinuated Pete might be gay and made fun of the fact that he wanted to buy an "old man" hat (see the photos) for the trip. ("And look like a farmer?!" she asked incredulously in her Irish brogue, leaving no room for second guessing the merit of Pete's suggested purchase.) She immediately won points in my book. Also, she gave us lots of great tips about good areas, good restaurants to eat in, and how to avoid the lower-quality local tourist joints where the food was worse, etc. Yup, she was alright.

We got to our apartment (renting apartments, we're finding, seems to be a good thing to do in Europe. They're cheaper, offer more space generally, have a kitchen and fridge, and sometimes even come with the same amenities as a hotel like new daily towels, etc.), which was up a massive flight of steps on the third or fourth floor and led to repeated panting sessions in which I realized how out of shape I've become.

The place was alright but unfortunately something in it set my allergies off like a faucet and though I'd never set foot in Ireland before this trip I found myself quite allergic to something there - probably the dust in our apartment though I'm sure some of the pollens around in the great, green garden of a country weren't helping. Having forgotten to bring my flonase, there were a couple of hours during the trip where I was just miserable and constantly blowing my nose (thus making everyone else miserable) and I was even puffy in some of the pictures.

After settling in on the Friday afternoon, we took a quick stroll around, immediately found a pub, and had some Guinness. I had always heard that the Guinness was better in Ireland and though Pete was skeptical - he's such a cynic - I would have to agree. Our taxi driver hinted that "Guinness doesn't travel well" and I think she's right. She mumbled something about the temperature needs of the beer. Either way, it did taste smoother and better in Ireland. It's definitely creamier, and the half-inch head they consistently create with each pour out of the tap seems to be key. It was good stuff. I never "loved" Guinness before, but in Ireland I would definitely say its my drink of choice. The Irish ambiance and mystique certainly doesn't hurt either. I mean, its hard to be a true 'drunken Mick' without a good point o' Guinness...

After a round we headed back the hotel/apartment and waited for Betsy to arrive. Pete went out exploring while Gwen and I took naps (neither of us had slept well the previous night and had gotten up early). A few hours later, Betsy arrived and we caught up briefly and then set out for some food.

We had Indian food that night, and despite being stuffed before we even got there (we had bought some cheese and bread at the local grocery store), the food was dee-lish. Thank God Britain dominated the Indian peninsula at one point, because without that imported food, we'd have been stuck eating British/Irish/UK food all weekend. Blech.

Saturday we struck out and did some hard core walking around the city. Pete, as usual, was in full guide mode, leading us around and schooling us occasionally with passages from the Ric Steve's book. We saw the sights, wandered around an outdoor market, and then started hitting several pubs. The Irish pub scene, as expected, was definitely solid. Simple, understated pubs that have good background noise but aren't too loud, people can actually converse and have good drinks.

We had a quick dinner Saturday on our way to a prearranged Irish pub crawl, which featured authentic Irish musicians - a guitar/singer guy and some dude playing the Irish bagpipes (Uillean pipes). Both were quite talented. At the first bar they explained some of the basics of Irish music and demonstrated various songs and jigs and then performed. After that, the whole group (about forty of us or so) got up and walked on to another bar. After settling in to the new place (they kept a whole room just for us) the duo fired things up again, this time explaining some of the history of Irish music between songs.

This musical pub crawl was great with one glaring exception - some American military jerk. Sad to say, but some obviously Army guy showed up to this thing way too drunk. He was clearly in the mood to rock out, or be loud, or pounce all over chicks, or whatever, and he was none too pleased when he learned that the audience for this pub crawl was an older, more musically interested, Irish culture-seeking sedate crowd (sort of like the kind you'd find at a poetry reading...plus Gwen, Pete, Betsy and I that is). The guy should have gotten the hint and then took off, but he didn't. Instead he sat in the back getting drunker and louder and yelling out inappropriate comments (like "Ridin' Dirty!") and "jokes" which he thought were funny. They weren't. It was actually quite frustrating being around him, and there were a lot of stares from around the room and a palpable vibe of people wishing the guy would leave. It made Pete, Gwen, and I somewhat embarrassed to be American military - which we talked about later - I felt like apologizing to others in the room for his behavior. Sadly, this is what many foreigners will remember of Americans. We even thought of quietly pulling rank on the dude (led by MAJOR Brophy, of course) and telling him to chill, but he was way too drunk to be handled smoothly. By the middle of the set at the second bar, he left, either pulled out by somebody or of his own volition - we can't be sure. Either way, everyone was glad he went. The lesson it is: Its OK to want to be loud and proud - hell maybe he just got back from Iraq - but pick your scene people....pick your scene. That - and don't yell "William Wallace!" between songs - like an idiot - when you're in IRELAND.

But, jerk-boy aside, we had a good time. And honestly, the performing duo didn't seem to mind the guy - my guess is that these guys were plenty used to loud drunks. I mean Jesus - they're Irish.

Sunday was another big tourist day. After breakfast, we headed to Trinity University located in the center of town and from there embarked on a two-hour walking tour of the city. The tour-guide was an Irish grad student who spent two hours brogueing it up and telling us all about the vast history of the University and the city in the context of Irish history. It was a solid tour, culminating in the recent peace accords, and I now feel much more "learn-ed" about Irish history, the Catholics, the Protestants, the English, Michael Collins (also nick-named Mick) and the rest. (Sadly, this new knowledge of real Irish history displaced much of my imagined Irish history, which included gangs of surly, pipe-smoking, Leprechauns brawling over turf, pots of gold, lucky charms, bars of Irish Spring, and various other things with their fists spinning in that classic Irish boxing stance. Come to think of it, I think I like my version better.)

After the walking tour, we had a solid brunch at some place called the Mermaid Cafe, and then it was time for the pub scene again and we sort of wandered around and in and out of pubs for most of the afternoon. Also, it rained on and off. (Wait, taking the time to write that last sentence is like typing "We breathed as we toured the city." Never mind.)

At some wine bar we happened into, we met up with an obviously drunk couple who were both Irish, both sauced, and both couldn't shut the hell up. They latched onto our foursome for a full hour while we ordered and split a bottle of wine. After spending about an hour in the place and finishing our bottle, we'd all had enough of "Irish Tommy's" close-talking, complete with spittle showers, and of his girlfriend's crazed noises (don't know how else to describe this) and we left - no, fled is a better word - the establishment.

What a scene it was. I'm glad, now, looking back, that it happened, because thanks to Irish Tommy I got my full 'drunken mick' experience, and it didn't disappoint. Quite the contrary, it amazed and even horrified a little. This guy blathered on about everything from US geography to having lived in Pittsburgh to George Bush to the Irish Coast. It was amazing. (He claimed that the west coast of Ireland was the second best spot to surf in the world - after Australia. Sorry Hawaii.) He must have told Pete and I about how many chicks he hooked up with in Pittsburgh at least a dozen times. His constant brogue was endearing - I'll give him that, and I enjoyed how he said the phrase, "I"m just Tommy from Ireland, but I think..." (Pronounced "Oim joost Taw-mee from Oir-lind, but...") before many of his ramblings.

Dealing with this couple (and Tommy's 12-year old daughter, who was sort of stuck at the bar but should be headed to therapy in a few short years) could have been a practical exam for "Dealing with Drunks 101". You sort of had to half-talk to them while trying to figure out a way out of there without causing a tremendous scene (i.e drawing out an "Are we bothering you?!?"), all the while communicating to those in your own group with subtle but complicated hand motions, eyebrow raises, and head gestures. After an hour, and despite the comedy of much of it, I think everyone was tired of Tommy-spittle on their face, especially Pete and I, who spent a good portion of the hour with some part - hand, arm, leg, or face - of this Tommy guy touching us. The girlfriend was even more freakish - I didn't deal much with her thank God. Betsy ended up diving on that grenade for most of the time.

After escaping the wine bar, and then after reliving the experience moment by moment both amused and horrified, we continued on with the Irish pub scene. We had a nice dinner that night, then it was more pubs, more Guinness, and more hands of Euchre.

Monday was the last day. We saw the Book of Kells that day, an interesting and impressive work of illustrated old Latin. There was more sightseeing and then we headed back to the airport bound for home again.

Overall I really liked Ireland. I think Gwen liked it more, given the whole Brophy thing perhaps, but I thought it rocked pretty hard to. That said, I'm not ready to put Dublin up over Berlin or Prague just yet. (It slaps Frenchy Paris right out of the mix, though). The people were for the most part really friendly and that brogue is hard to beat. Also, it definitely lived up to its drinking reputation. I saw more piles of vomit after Friday and Saturday night than I did on your average Mardi Gras day. We saw AT LEAST two people urinating on the sidewalks without even attempting to hide, and trying to find anything open before 10 am (even coffee and bagel shops) on the weekend mornings was next to impossible, as if the whole city glumly accepted the fact that everyone would be hungover and still passed out at that time, anyway. In short, go micks.

At one point Pete was walking behind some college student who was on his cell phone. Pete overhead the following line, "Wait - she's from Canada right? Jay-sus, I'd be surprised if she could even f*cking read!" ('read' was pronounced 'raid') This cracked me up and sealed it. Any country that likes to bag on Canadians for no real reason is all right by me - all right indeed.

And, pics.





Never get between a Mick and his Guinness





According to our cabbie, Pete looks like a gay Irish farmer






Colored doors pervade Dublin






Irish guy playing Irish drum near Irish statue in Ireland.






One Happy Pete













Pete freaks an Irish Famine memorial statue. For his next stop on the Appropriate Behavior 2007 tour, he'll be headed to Auschwitz...








Not a good language school - they can't even spell their title right...







Trinity University - barely older than UCSD






Trinity University





Dublin Castle








Best dog-squat image ever - the Gaelic is cool too






Hey its Tommy from Ireland - somebody help!





Pete Looking Leprechaunish...






The Mick and the Irish Chick






And as always...

Back From Ireland

We had a great time on the Emerald Isle. Greenery, Irish brogues, Guinness, and drunken Micks a plenty! Due to time constraints this evening, though, the full recap will have to wait - check back throughout the week.




One of the Beautiful Dublin Sights...

PROFIS, Mick, and Gates

So I have some good news and here it is:

After a little bit of fretting, I found out that I'm no longer on the PROFIS list for the 2-6 infantry of the 2nd brigade of the 1st Armored Division.

Why does that matter? Well, it matters because that unit is going back to Iraq in November, and I didn't want to be stuck going again. The word PROFIS is short, in military lingo, for something like "Professional Filler System" (aka PRO FI S). To be "Profis'd" is to be assigned to a unit when they deploy. Docs are not normally attached to line units like infantry battalions, because normally, in their day to day "garrison" operations, said battalions have PA's (Physician's Assistants) handle all their medical needs. Docs rather, are attached, or "PROFIS'd" and really only have to interact with them when deployment orders come down and its time to go somewhere bad.

So the last time, when I went to Iraq, I learned I was PROFIS'd in February, and then orders came in March. Once the orders came in - BAM - the rest is history. El Paso, Kuwait, Baghdad, mortars, nightmares. All of it.

I didn't want to caught being sent again, especially when there are many, many docs in the Army that haven't gone. (Theoretically its an "everbody goes once before anybody goes twice" type of system.) But the system has flaws, and the Army can be known for its political bullshit, and Landstuhl is no different, with more conniving individuals able to play the system, and so I was afraid of not getting off of that list in time and being stuck going to the middle East again.

I went to talk to my division chief about all of this last week and he had had no idea this unit was going back so soon - I guess it was a real eye opener for him. His lack of knowledge about the situation kind of freaked me out - since he is sort of supposed to be in charge of tracking this sort of thing. He is supposed to know whom, among his bevy of docs, is actually PROFIS'd, and to which units - and so I started to get worried that no one had taken me off that list, and that I would be stuck going again while several never-been-deployed schmoes at Landstuhl laughed it up in my face.

Well, I certainly didn't like it. But just as I was about to resign myself to an unlucky fate of deploying again - and soon - and start cursing the jerks around me (not really - they're nice guys - just no one wants to be deployed), I got my hands on the new PROFIS list for my OLD brigade. Pete himself, still in a position of power over at Baumholder, provided this list. And I was not on it. So I will officially NOT deploy back to Iraq with this unit in November. Some newer, younger, never-before-deployed dude is going to go in my stead.

Which is good.

I guess it was MEDCOM, back in the States who made this call to switch in a whole new set of PROFIS docs for the old ones (I wasn't the only one in jeopardy here), though I can't be sure. Either way, the right thing was done (I SHOULDN'T go back until all other available docs have gone at least once), and all seems a little more right - or fair at least - with the army today.

Now this doesn't protect me indefinitely from further deployments, but it does buy me more time in my race to get out (just over 24 months left...). Hopefully I'll never go to shitty, foul-smelling, what-the-hell-are-doing-there Iraq ever again. You see, I really, really don't want to go back. Feel like I've done my time and all that.

So score one for Medcom for doing the right thing - this is indeed good news for me as well as other freedom lovers everywhere.


In other news

The subset of friends - the bulk of my San Diego boys, that is - that know me in one way as "Mick" will be amused to know that Gwen, Pete, Pete's friend, and I are headed to Ireland this weekend for a little four-day vacation. The origins of my nickname "Mick" are somewhat vague, but I think they revolve mostly around the sound-alike "Mike" and an old Saturday Night Live skit involving a Real World parody, with Mike Myers being an Irish guy and proclaiming, "I'm from Dublin - listen to me", and Adam Sandler loudly replying "Shudddup you STU-PID MICK!" And the rest is history. I'm officially 'Mick.'

With that in mind, I'm headed to Dublin itself ("Listen to me") this weekend for what should be a good time. As I understand it, Pete has gotten us signed up for some sort of pub crawl on one of the nights and things could get fairly ugly. Though I suppose if you don't go to Ireland to get drunk and fight, then you really have sort of missed out. Adventures of "Mick" to follow...


More VIP Sightings...

Also, I saw the Secretary of Defense Robert Gates at work yesterday. I was on the ward yesterday finishing some paperwork. Next thing I know there were frantic calls from the nursing admin staff that "Robert Gates was coming to hand out purple hearts!" A few moments later, after everyone was scurrying around (I continued charting and sighing), he strolled in, all 5 foot 6 inches of him (he's remarkably short) and went off down the hall with a few Generals on his heels to hand out purple hearts to the wounded joes.

Shaking my head, I finished my charting and then went out into the main hall, which was crawling with black-suited, sunglass wearing, ear-pieced secret service men standing with their backs to walls, their chests puffed out, and their hands crossed. It looked like a Matrix audition. For a brief moment I wanted to stroll right up to one and say something like, "I know Kung Fu," just to see what would happen.

I didn't though. Instead, I simply shook my head again and went back to my office.

Ah, Landstuhl.

How I Waste Time

I survived another date with golf today, and by survived I mean 'had a good time'.

Its always tough when you start hanging out again with someone you used to be close to but then broke up with, and this time is no different. Initially I was tentative with all the usual reservations. But our first date back, in Bermuda, went so well that I was curious to try it again. Still I'm cautious, and this caution more than anything I think led me to wait a little while after the first date to have another go. I mean, I've been hurt before. By golf. Don't think for one instant I've forgotten that. Because I haven't.


And so I had a good time. Once more I was reminded of all the things I like about golf. Being outside, joking with buddies, hitting a decent shot or two. And the best part is being at the point where I don't have to take the relationship too seriously yet. Don't have to rush back into anything. Hell, don't WANT to rush back into anything. Dont' want to open up just yet. Let the spark rekindle, I keep thinking. For goodness sake, don't FORCE anything - maybe that's what happened last time. This time, let the honeymoon phase bloom and play itself out. Just enjoy it along the way.

And then just see what happens. That's my plan, anyway. I'm not thinking too much more forward than that. I'm optimistic, but I'm also in a good place right now - don't want to upset the mix too much. I want to forget about the past, but I don't want to forget the lessons of the past.

We'll just see how it goes. Still, I wonder how long I should wait before setting the next tee time. What is the rule these days? Three days? A week? How long does a guy wait? Oh man, I've just been out of the game so long...


-----------------------


I'm not sure where that came from. But I did play golf today, and I did have fun. Pete and I hit up the old Baumholder course (remember Baumholder?!? I do!) with a couple of other guys from the 1st Armored Division - guys I'd met before either in or around Iraq. And we had a good time. Some good shots, some (read: more) bad shots, but enough good shots to keep it entertaining and not utterly frustrating. And with expectations still so low, all was in good fun. And I re-iterate: We'll see what happens.


And now to the real purpose of this post. It occured to me the other day that I don't post a whole lot unless I'm traveling. (And even then I slack off.) Of course the travel posts are the most interesting. There's the travel story, the cultural learnings and multiple faux pas I typically make regarding such, and of course the photos including the token picture of me hoisting Pete like a new bride in various locales. And those posts are all well and good, but what about the other things I do? What about the mundane things of lackluster interest that most blogs really revolve around? What happened to those things in my life? Well, good question.

And with that in mind, I present "How I Waste Time", a multi-part series which looks at exactly what I (or Gwen and I) do on all those "wild" nights in Europe when we're not traveling or doing something Euro or Funboy related. People have been begging for this, absolutely begging for it. And who am I not to oblige? (OK, no one's been begging)


Part I - Madden

No conversation about me and wasting time can start, middle, or end without mentioning Madden NFL Football on the Playstation. It is the free time killing Godzilla, stronger than all the rest. Now its true that in terms of grid-iron video games, I was raised mostly on Tecmo Bowl, Super Tecmo Bowl, and a handful of others, and didn't fully convert to Madden until sometime in medical school. From then on, however, I've been a yearly addict of the game, and have pumped countless hours of my finite life into playing it.

Eddie George, Marshall Faulk, Dante Culpepper, Michael Vick, Ray Lewis, Donovan McNabb, and this year's Sean Alexander (the Madden cover) all grace my shelves, and each game has its own memories for me. Starting around Faulk or Culpepper, the game introduced soundtracks with about 15-20 songs per game, all of which I had pounded into my brain hour after hour to the point where I can recognize those songs on the radio, years later even, as "Madden Songs". I know this about them above all else, be it the song name, the band name, whatever. I just know it was in Madden - and then I can sing it word for word. (To date, my favorite Madden songs of all time are Andrew W.K.'s "Party Hard" (circa the Culpepper cover I think), and Green Day's "American Idiot" from the Ray Lewis year.)


For most of the years of my addiction to this game, I played almost exclusively one player seasons in the "Franchise" mode, meaning I would take on an entire franchise (always the Giants, of course) and start playing the season from start to finish. The seasons would come and go, and not only the games themselves, but all aspects of franchise management would be tended to. After the season was over - with me having won the super bowl just about every time (save that one year when I was intern and Ike Hilliard dropped a Kerry Collins slant in the endzone as time was expiring and I lost in the NFC Championship to the then all-powerful Rams - actually I don't want to talk about it) - there were free agent negotiations/signings to attend to and even rookie scouting which culminated in a draft, complete with boos or cheers from computer fans after selections were made. Finally the year turns over and a new season begins. And so on I would play through season after season, building a dynasty, until the next iteration of Madden came out.

I've toyed with other franchises over the years, here and there. The Seahawks when I was in Seattle, Cincinnatti in other years (for some reason, ever since Tecmo Bowl, Cincy has always been one of my go-to football video game franchises...), but 90% of all games I've played are with the Giants. The players progress in skill, and even on all-madden, the game is too easy, so that after three seasons (all Super Bowl winners of course - save that one year. That one DARK year...) all my players are dominant at their positions (skill attributes are raised or lowered based on performance as you go) and I can destroy the next best team like 42-0.

For the past three years at least, I've played on no setting but All-Madden. The most frustrating thing about the All-Madden setting is the rampant computer cheating, which at first is utterly fazing but after one learns the patterns the game becomes playable. Most disconcerting is how the defenders - especially in a zone defense - turn into Spider-Man when the ball is in the air. They leap thirty feet in the air, move with super-sonic closing speed, catching or deflecting everything - you really have to be careful when throwing the ball on All-Madden. As a result, most of my QB's - despite their high touchdown totals - also have high interception totals. I've accepted it for the most part, however there are certain times when its still really annoying. Like when the defensive linemen who drop back into a short, flat zone during a zone blitz are able to leap and one-handedly snag balls in mid-air and start running the other way. Its nuts.


In light of all this, and even with the mighty All-Madden turned on, the challenge of the game had faded somewhat, and before this year I was struggling to think of what else I could do to make the game more challenging, or at least more interesting. And while wandering in the desert one day (literally - I was walking on the FOB in Iraq), I figured it out. (I'm also proud to add that I was probably the first person on FOB Falcon to have Madden 2007 thanks to an amazon.com pre-order. No joke. I really am proud of that.)

I decided to play every game with every team. I would do it by only playing the offenses. I would never play defense. It was crazy. It was insane. It would take forever. It was exactly the thing I needed to do to ground away time in Iraq. (Technical note: To do this, simply go to 'Settings' after every change of posssesion - be it punt, turnover, score, whatever - and switch the controller icon over to the other team. Voila - you're the other team now.)

And now, having tested this theory over the course of this entire year (from August 2006 onward), I can say it works. And it can be a lot more fun than just taking one franchise and dominating all the time. You take it from me.

Mostly the benefits are getting to play with every team and to see every player in action, from Ladainian Thomlinson and Peyton Manning on down to Ron Dayne and Charlie Frye. Every team has its own play-book, its own strengths and weaknesses. And the games are often quite close because guess what? It's me against me! Also its cool when looking at stats to know that every offensive stat was generated by me - no made up computer stats. I'm not sure why, but this "all natural" stat thing is one of the most pleasing elements of playing this way.

I play 6-minute quarters and a full game takes about an hour, maybe just a hair over. I played about six or seven full weeks of the season when I was in Iraq. Then, a with just a few weeks to go (on the deployment, not the Madden season), tragedy struck. My memory card got messed up (dust, maybe?) and the season was erased. It was a tough blow after all the time I had put in. But I resolved to see it through, and started the season back up.

And that is the same season I'm playing today. Whenever I come home from work and feel the need to Madden, I just fire it up and see what game is next on the schedule. I average about a game a day when I'm in town. Currently I'm in week 11 and the playoff picture is slowly starting to form.

Not every game is super fun (late season 3-6 Browns vs. 2-7 Jets, anyone?) , but most games have some interesting element to them and some games are just non-stop fun because the talent level is so high (Colts/Pats, etc). I know people are wondering if I remain objective in all these games. I can assure everyone that I do. Not only are the Giants not in first place in the NFC, they aren't even first in their division, with both the Cowboys and the Eagles ahead of them. So its not like I take McNabb and immediately start throwing picks with him. I play the games even. (If anything, my knowledge of the Giant defense actually hurts them. For example, I know Sam Madison can't run anymore.)

Right now the race is on to finish out this season prior to the next Madden game shipping. It doesn't look good in terms of the timing, but I'm still motivated. Who knows? I might even do the unheard of and hold off on the playing the next Madden game (available in August) until the season I've got going in this one is done. I might just be that crazy.

THIS is what I do.

I just thought everyone would like to know.





Madden In Iraq

Epilogue - This picture was actually during the night of hell when our ammo dump blew up. It was Rams vs. Seahawks. I'll never forget, putting on my body armor, thinking I might blow up, and then, not knowing what else to do, hitting un-pause and continuing to play Madden...Remind me to write out that whole story some time. It was nuts.

"Can I interest you in some street dirt?"

A strange man came to our door on Thursday.

It was about 6 pm or so. I was preparing to go for a run and the door buzzer rang. When Gwen opened the door, we were greeted by a middle-aged German man in either a cheap or overly wrinkled suit, possibly both. He was forty-something, pudgy, balding, and stood patiently at the foot of our set of four concrete stairs.

When he saw us behind the opened door, he smiled and started almost immediately yammering in German. He spoke fast and Gwen and I stood there and tried to do the awkward smile, open mouth, subtle hand motion "Sorry but we don't speak German" thing. When that failed, I finally managed to get an "Englisch bitte....ich nich sphreche deutch...." out.

He stopped, looked confused for a moment, and then set about deciding how he was going to get his message to us with the few words of English he knew.

To this day, it remains unclear what in the hell the man wanted.

Unlike most Germans, he didn't speak more than a few words of English, so instead of having any sort of conversation the three of us spent the next couple of moments huddled together trying to communicate in a hand-gesture based, mostly ineffective manner akin to Kevin Costner trying to communciate with the Indians in "Dances With Wolves".

First he pointed into our house. Then he pointed to the street. We had no idea what he was saying. Then he went to a knee, took his small note pad in one hand, showed it to us, and then dragged the pad across one of our concrete stairs so it would accumulate dirt. Turning the pad over, he pointed to the dirt, then pointed back to the street, then back into the house.

We were confused. "Dirt?" we asked.

He looked confused as well - clearly the word "dirt" didn't register with him. I asked him to say it "in Deutshche". He rattled off some more words, one of which was "Schmutz". OK, sounded like dirt.

And then he kept indicating the dirt, the street, and the house. Gwen and I had no idea what the hell it all meant.

"OK, so you want to check the house for something? Check it for...street dirt?"

He didn't understand, but when I gestured inside the house he nodded eagerly.

At this point I sort of feared a salesman. At the same time, I didn't think that door-to-door salesmen even existed in Germany. With the Germans' genuinie dislike for strangers, I couldn't imagine one having much success. What I could imagine was the horrible sneer of incredulous disdain that might form on the face of your typical German at the thought of being disturbed in the home by something so annoying as a salesman. I briefly shuddered at the thought of being on the business-end of one of those imaginary death sneers before re-focusing on the "Street Dirt" guy standing before me.

As my suspicion grew, I asked him point blankly if I had to buy something. I'm not sure how I conveyed this, but somehow I referenced money and asked with a disapproving look if this would cost us something. He seemed to get this and shook his head. My next question was the word, "Free?". He nodded. "Free" was a word he knew. I'm not sure that was a good sign.

Well, whatever he wanted to do, Gwen and I weren't really interested. So we stalled. I had all my running gear on, so I indicated to him that I was just about to go for a run and so this wouldn't be a good time. He paused, collected himself, and then asked "Tomorrow?"

Ugh. We thought it over. Not wanting to be mean to this guy, we stalled and than reluctantly nodded. "Tomorrow."

With that he starting haggling a time. We settled on five the next day and I made a mental note to not be home a lick before five-thirty. I didn't reallly want to deal with this guy again, and I had no interest in seeing if our house was full of "street dirt" or whatever he wanted. I could tell Gwen felt the same way.

And with that the guy seemed satisfied, said good-bye, and turned to leave. We shut the door and discussed what had happened for a moment. We agreed neither of us had any idea what in the hell the guy wanted. He didn't seem like one of the twice-yearly chimney sweep guys who come by. (In Germany they send uniformed chimney-sweeps to your house twice a year to inspect the chimney. I have no idea why, but I've been through it a few times. They always send two guys, and they always have uniforms on and they usually speak English, at least in my experience.) We laughed at the concept of "Street Dirt". Then I went back to the door to go for my run.

As I walked down the steps and prepped my watch to start, the guy was still around, just outside our gate. He had some sort of rolling suitcase with him that wasn't visible when we initially talked to him. Another devious sign. Nodding politely, I smiled at him and then started running the other way (beginning my jog). I made a mental note to see if he just went to the next house or not, but I rounded the corner before he was done fiddling with his case in front of our place.

I didn't really think about him much for a while after that. I think Gwen and I talked about it once more when I got back from my run. I asked her is she saw the guy still walking around the neighborhood or anything. She said she hadn't and that was it.

Then I forgot totally about him until the next day.

I was driving home from work. After a long day after a long week, I was looking forward to getting home, cracking a beer, and firing up a game of Madden. When I pulled onto our street, I neared the house, and then noticed a small red car parked in front where we normally park. No big deal, I thought initially - occasionally people park in front of our house; friends of neighbors, etc. But as I neared the car I suddenly remember the dirt salesman from the day before. Crap! I looked at my clock - it read 5:35 pm. He wouldn't be waiting this long, would he?

As I neared, I looked into the car and sure enough, it was the guy. He looked a little annoyed, and he was studying all the passing cars intently. I realized he had probably been waiting there the full half-hour just to get in our house and probe for street dirt.

I didn't know what to do. I sure as hell didn't want to stop and deal with this guy - I knew that much. So I did the only responsible, adult thing. I drove right on by.

I could feel his eyes on me as I drove by, checking me out like the car in front of me, and I was hoping that with my sunglasses on he didn't realize it was me - the same jerk who had promised to be home by 5 pm that day for his wonderful dirt probing. I tried to look casual and take no interest in anything but the road in front of me. At the end of the street I turned off and went around the block, trying desparately to think about what to do.

I called Gwen, who was still at work, and told her the news with a "The murderer is in the house!" type of alarm, as if it was a tremendously huge deal. We laughed about it, and neither of us knew what to do. I decided to wait him out. I circled the block again, and from the end of the street (the direction I had originally come from) I could see the red car still there. Dammit!

I looked again at the clock. 5:45 pm. On Friday. This guy was persistent. He really wanted to get in there and probe for dirt! I went straight instead of turning onto the street. I knew I could circle the street from afar and keep spying on him as I drove around. (Think of a top down view of large number "8", but all squared out. Our street is the middle dash of the numeral eight. I basically drove around the perimeter and kept peering in at the middle as I drove around.)

I figured I would wait him out, and once he left I would just pull up and park. Well, he decided to leave, alright, only he managed to cross my path as he was doing so. Recognizing his car, I saw him coming right at me as I rounded a corner. Again, I looked straight ahead and paid no mind doing everything short of actively whistling non-chalantly so he could hear it in his car as he passed. I could again feel his eyes on me. I kept going straight, instead of turning down our street, hoping this would throw him, and made one more large lap.

Finally, as I rounded around again, the spot in front of our house was open and so I slowly approached. I feared he had seen me and would be back, so I actually parked a little further down the street (not in front of our house) just in case he drove back by.

Quickly getting out of the car, I ran (literally ran) to the door and went in. A few minutes later , with Madden already on, Gwen called and asked about the guy. I said he was gone, hopefully never to return but I kept waiting for the door buzzer to ring again, signaling his dirt-probing return. (That, or a brick through the window because he knew I was actively avoiding him). Luckily, it didn't happen. We didn't see him either later that night or the rest of this weekend.

But tomorrow is Monday - a work day. And he could be back. Back on the prowl. Back on the streets. I just hope, should he show his face around these parts again, that he walks on by this time, forgetting all about our little old place. Otherwise.... Well, otherwise, I have no idea what the hell could happen.

We still have no idea what he wanted in the first place.